


Shockwave

by Jet44



Category: White Collar
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 20:59:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13935297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jet44/pseuds/Jet44
Summary: An explosion at a yodeling competition brings back traumatic memories for Neal.Inspired by Kanarek13's art, "Comfort."





	Shockwave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kanarek13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kanarek13/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Comfort](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13933650) by [Kanarek13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kanarek13/pseuds/Kanarek13). 



“You just had to try and yodel, didn’t you?” muttered Peter.

“I did more than try, thank you very much,” retorted Neal. “I took third place.”

“Out of six people.”

“Are you taking me for granted, Peter? I’ve never yoldeled in my life, and I just placed third in the state championship,” said Neal.

“You got beat by an elderly Asian guy in a Sound of Music costume, clutching a live chicken.”

“Jealousy doesn’t become you, Pet-”

When the shockwave hit, Peter had a split-second to instinctively lunge in Neal’s direction.

WHUMP!

And Neal met him halfway, throwing himself into Peter’s arms with violent force. The back of a concessions tent exploded into flames that flared upward as they spread to the blue and red checkered roof of the tent.

People ran out of the tent and picked themselves up off the ground and Peter was trying to run towards the scene, but he was getting nowhere. He had a CI in his arms, gripping his shoulders with fingers that felt like talons and - crying?

“Neal?” Peter kissed his forehead without even thinking about who might see, instantly distressed by the anguish in his partner’s eyes. “Neal?”

“It’s the propane tank!” someone yelled. “Propane tank went up!”

Neal drew his head back and blinked, drawing in a deep gulp of air. He looked at the tent and sniffed, finally letting go of Peter and starting to run towards the tent.

Two paces in, he tripped and fell flat on his face.

Peter knelt beside him, anxiety clawing up from his stomach. He was hurt. Oh, God. Had he been hit by shrapnel? The shock wave - it’d been enough to make Peter’s ears pop, but it hadn’t really been a concussive force - but Neal had been a couple of feet closer…..

“Neal, you hit?” asked Peter urgently, giving up on the idea of charging to the rescue. It was a well-organized festival, and security and paramedics were already running in, and sirens were rapidly approaching.

“Uh -” Neal rolled over on his side into a semi-fetal position. “Sick. I feel sick.”

Peter flashed his badge at a blue-jumpsuited medic hauling an orange bag. “Over here!” he said sharply.

The medic knelt and started examining Neal. His blood pressure was low. He was disoriented, but lucid. Nothing hurt. He was nauseated, and started shivering. There was no blood, no swelling. 

“He’s in shock,” said the medic finally. After a brief consultation on the radio, he informed them that the first two ambulances on the scene would take more severe injuries, and the third would take Neal to the hospital for further testing. 

As soon as the paramedic left to tend to others, Neal crawled into Peter’s arms, seemingly trying to get as much physical contact with him as possible.

And then he started sobbing.

Peter could feel the heat coming off the fire the way it had at the airport, with Kate’s plane in flames, and it all clicked. Neal probably wasn’t hurt. He was in shock, and having an acute flashback to a traumatic event he’d never gotten the chance to properly recover from. 

“It’s not that day,” said Peter softly, almost whispering into his ear. “It’s not that day. I’ve got you, I won’t be separated from you, you’re safe. It’s not that day.”

“I know,” Neal managed to choke out.

“You never got to grieve safely,” said Peter. “That changes today. After you’re checked out at the hospital, you’re coming home with me. You aren’t going to prison, you’re going to a friend’s house and I’m gonna hold you and feed you and kiss you and you can grieve every bit you need, okay?”

The tears flooding Neal’s eyes were of the deeply moved variety when he nodded. “Sorry,” he whispered.

“You better be,” teased Peter.

Neal snorted in teary laughter, smiling for the first time. The smile faded instantly when he turned to look at the flaming tent, now reduced mostly to ashes and smoke and a skeleton of poles. The remains of a small propane tank were just visible, and things seemed calm now.

There was clear horror and shock still written on Neal’s face, and he was still shivering, but his eyes were dry as he watched the scene. Peter tucked Neal’s head against his face, and wrapped his right hand around Neal’s chin, holding and caressing him. He put his other hand on Neal’s head and worked his fingers into the familiar soft locks of hair, holding him tight.

“ _I’m_ sorry,” whispered Peter. “I’m sorry for your loss, and I’m so, so sorry you had to endure it in a prison cell. I’m so sorry.”

Neal sniffed, and leaned back in Peter’s arms. “Can we skip the hospital? I’m not hurt. I was just - in shock.”

“No,” said Peter firmly.

“It’ll remind me of prison?” said Neal, clearly doubting the tactic would work.

“Good,” said Peter, nuzzling Neal with his cheek.

“Evil,” muttered Neal. “Pure, unadulterated evil.”

Peter kissed Neal’s softly creased forehead. “Protective. And worried. And really stinkin’ protective.”

“I don’t want to face it,” admitted Neal softly. Maybe it really would remind him of prison.

“I’ll be with you every minute, showing you it’s not that day. It’s different. I promise,” said Peter. “And it ends at home, with love and soft things.”

“Blankets, Peter. They’re called blankets,” said Neal, grinning for real.


End file.
